I used to try to shake off my mother whenever she tried to make me look more presentable. She’d try to clean a smudge of dirt of my freckled nose and I’d push her away yelling “Leave me alone, Hermione!” She’d try to button my shirt properly and I’d push her away, “I’ve missed a case, but I like it this way.” And I’d walk out the door with one collar near my ear and the other close to my chest. My mother no longer cares how messy I look, or simply learned to look as if she doesn’t care. Ironically to me, inevitably to her, now I’m the one who asks her for help to straighten out a sweater and make sure my shirt peaks out evenly underneath it.
“… the best way of killing a rose is to force it open when it is still only the promise of a bud.”
That was an excerpt of José Saramago’s The Cave. Saramago is a Portuguese writer and Nobel Laureate, who was born in Azinhaga, Iberian Peninsula, in 1922. I learned about his writing in high-school. One of his books was part of the curriculum so, naturally, due to my very cool rebellious teen spirit, I proceeded to ignore it, which was my mo. with any book I HAD to read. A few months after finishing high-school, after I could do nothing to change my paltry grades, I decided to read it. He slowly climbed up the ladder of my favourite writers to the top. It was a small ladder, Enid Blyton was there, as was J.K. Rowling and a Maxim Magazine erotica writer, whose writing helped me a lot in the pre-adsl days. It was still, by no means, a small accomplishment.
Saramago deals with daunting subjects. His most recognized work is Blindness. It paints a vivid image of violence, chaos, and Continue reading “José & Pilar”
Tic-tac, tic-tac, tic-tac; The clock is winding down. Two weeks to go, at the most. Yesterday I went to
my college, for what I hoped was the last time. The country is engulfed in flames, but on the trip
there, the whole 100kms of it, I saw no flame, no fire. It’s the peak of summer. It isn’t rainy,
cloudy, stormy, snowy, or any “y” literature and movies associate with departure.
Still, it’s time to say goodbye. These weren’t the best years of my life, as the
brochures made me believe. I wanted to keep my job and get busy
with my education. I wanted to meet different people.
Plus, Greendale has the most advanced typing class
in the Southwestern Greendale area.The fact
I could register by fax was a big
advantage. It still didn’t
culminate in the
José Maria de Eça de Queiroz or Eça de Queirós; November 25, 1845 – August 16, 1900) is generally considered to be the greatest Portuguese writer in the realist style.Zola considered him to be far greater thanFlaubert. The London Observer critics rank him with Dickens, Balzac and Tolstoy.
Henry Charles Bukowski (born Heinrich Karl Bukowski; August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994) was a German-born American poet, novelist and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles.It is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women and the drudgery of work.
As I add misleading tags to this post, which will hopefully bring mislead people over among my fellow googlers, who entered (porn+naked) I realize that among my “most used tags” Bukowski pops up.
This man made me change a lot about myself. My writing: which is still bad, but more concise. My appreciation for prose and poetry. Especially poetry, which through him I understood it needn’t be dull. It needn’t be about the weather and how that reflected on the human condition. It could be about the human condition and how that reflected on the human condition. He made me see how drinking could be cool in a non-glamorous way, and how uncool a beershit is, the next day. He taught me about style, which made me give-up on the idea of hipster goggles. Bukowski had an intense desire to please people, which he tried hard to hide beneath layers of viciousness and chauvinism, but he never changed his art because of it; he showed me it’s ok to be an asshole. He also showed me I didn’t have to try so hard, because whatever I had coming would come (HERE). One of the few advice I ignored. He had the talent to be great, but a glimpse of modesty pointed me to the other direction.
He was hard on aspiring creators, because he told the truth. And now, as I try to convince myself that if I just remove my flat-screen, my ps3 and my sound-system from my room I’ll finally work hard, he is hard on me again:
Mr. Fox is a wild animal. We meet him in the midst of a dangerous attempt to steal feathery treats on a guarded farm. Mrs. Fox is with him as the Beach Boys sing along. It’s his curiosity that gets them both trapped inside a metal cage, the prelude of what’s coming next: they’re having a baby. Their wild days are over.
He goes into the newspaper business; it doesn’t pay nearly as much as the poultry stealing business, but at least the Foxes are happy, we’re told. Mr. Fox, as a fox would, remains wild at heart and his prospects of living out the rest of his fox-days in an unfoxly manner are not appealing. His fox-father only lived to be 7,5 fox-years, and he’s closing in on that fox-age. Fox, badger, fox, fox. Instead of buying an expensive sports car, Continue reading “FANTASTIC MR. FOX”